Short stories

Monday, 30 January 2017

Gap Year in Australia? What! (Part three)

My son was looking up information for his gap year in
Australia. He knew the best times of
year to travel. The best places to find
casual work (but he intended not to have to work – all set to try to earn
enough before he went).

I had given up trying to scare myself with Internet searches
detailing adventures with horror story endings. I was now becoming overwhelmed with the practicalities involved
in a trip to the other side of the world.

The risks - a real notice.

The cost of the flight.

The cost of the accommodation (£20 a night over a period of
six months coming in at around £3,800).

The need for medical insurance, travel costs (he can’t
drive).

God knows what else I’ve not even thought of!

How could he believe any of it were possible?

I tried to be positive.
I managed not to come out with what I was thinking: you are deluded,
my darling.

I deliberately played devil’s advocate with myself and ended
up going back again to 1979 and Camping Sirene in Argeles sur mer. The Bev who stood looing up at the sign she
had found after an ill-advised march in the midday sun along country lanes
piled high with oranges and their sellers, thought only of the present.

She saw colour and light.
She saw a place to pitch a tent.
She saw the small notice that told her and Carol that the site was full.

I like to think that I still have a good measure of the
optimism and joie de vivre that I had when I was twenty-one. I like to think that I would still board a
train with my best pal with no thought of booking accommodation along the way.

I remembered that the camp site in Argeles had been our
ultimate stop. We had spent time in
Carcassonne along the way. We’d met two
middle-aged men at the Camping Municipal and struck up an unlikely yet most
delightful friendship. How did that
kind of thing happen?

Carcassonne

It only took a moment for the most cynical of answers to
come.

Carol and I were young and pretty. The men were chancers.
They couldn’t believe their luck.

But this, of course, was not the whole story.

With a little more probing of my twenty-one-year-old self, I
knew that there was more to it. There
must have been a kernel of something much more precious inside my firm body and
beneath my smooth complexion.

Our gentlemen admirers told us that we made them feel young
again. Of course, they were attracted
to our relative physical perfection, but they were also captivated by our
joyful approach to life, to our willingness to experience all that was
new. We accompanied them to a
restaurant, a chateau, a supermarket.
We enjoyed outrageous and unfathomable conversations about food, love,
politics and growing old.

When we left, they gave us money – not for services rendered
(there was no physical gratification on offer), but because they genuinely
wanted us to be happy and have fun.

And money for them had come to represent anything but fun.

They were sad to see us go.

They would revert to the routine of signing on at the Social
Security Office (they were retired and vehemently believed that they were
entitled to their paltry pensions, which unfortunately meant that they were
unable to move far from the camp site).

They had their cats and they had each other.

Carol and I had enjoyed their company, but they were remote
from our world and from lives that had only just begun. We left with no regrets and boarded the
train for the next stage of our adventure.

My son wanted an adventure too.

That was all.

I knew that he should be free to choose – but I still longed
for him to stay close. At least closer
than the other side of the world.

I wanted him to follow in my footsteps. Perhaps taking in a slightly wider
area.

And I wanted him to go with a friend – this was the
sticking point. If he went, I didn’t
want him to go alone.To be continued...Happy Days!

About Bev

My name is Bev and I live in SW France in a crumbly old house with a husband who’s keen on renovation, two kids who are going through the French education system (arrrgh), no dogs and no cats.
Bunny on a Bike is not my first book, but it is the first book to be put out into the world. Writing Bunny on a Bike was something I enjoyed doing, (my son is currently asking me whether I like bagels – distracting, in a random kind of way), because it was nice to remember all the ridiculous adventures I had in London and try to recall what it felt like to be young and ready to try anything.
I hope that people who read it will laugh a lot and feel uplifted. That would be wonderful. You can have a look on Amazon Kindle if you would like to.
If you want to get more of an idea of the tone of the book then I suggest you have a look at some of the posts on this blog.
I have since published two mysteries and a prequel to Bunny on a Bike. I will publish my next book (suspense) next week (Oct 2013). All are listed on my blog.
Thanks for visiting my page and I hope you find something you like.